


i wear glasses so that i can see you better

by Anonymous



Series: CARGO [4]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Colorblind GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Diary/Journal, Fluff, Flustered Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Friends to Lovers, Hopeless Romantic Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, dream is a simp, george is a snoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28911528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: dream sucks at hiding his crush in real life. and while george may be colourblind, he's not emotionally blind.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: CARGO [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073561
Comments: 16
Kudos: 264
Collections: Anonymous





	i wear glasses so that i can see you better

George is standing by the baggage claim, eyes darting around - from the conveyor belt to the doors to the crowd around him and then back to the conveyor belt. His hands are no calmer, playing with the hem of his shirt and checking his phone every minute for notifications that just aren’t coming.

He grabs his bag, finally, and makes his way to an empty bench, eyes still darting; from the crowd to the doors and back to the crowd again. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, not really, and he’s beginning to wish he had begged Dream harder for a glimpse of his face.

_Dream knows what I look like. He’ll find me._

The seconds tick by and his anxiousness rises, phone still utterly devoid of notifications. He double, triple checks that he’s connected to the internet, then checks a fourth time just to be sure. 

“George!” His head whips up at the familiar voice, a smile growing unchecked on his lips. He connects the voice to long legs, a blue hoodie, and the prettiest smile he’s ever seen. 

_Oh._

George hopes to God that the blush on his face isn’t obvious as he stands and hugs his best friend. It’s too short for his liking, but the warmth in his chest doesn’t melt away, because Dream is _finally_ here, real and solid and so close.

He has to crane his neck just slightly upwards to look at his friend, so close they’re practically chest to chest. What he sees leaves him breathless.

Dream’s hair tumbles around his ears, parted to one side and just shy of too long. Freckles are spattered onto his face like they’ve been flicked on by a paintbrush, curling around the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks, fading out across his jaw. 

He takes in every inch of his friend's face, scanning every dip and curve, until he meets Dream’s eyes and realises he’s been staring.

George's excuse dies in his throat at the way Dream’s looking back at him, eyes wide and so, so nervous.

“You look good.” He blurts and almost regrets it, but watching the reaction spread across his friend's face makes it so worth it. Dream is blushing from his jaw to his hairline almost immediately. He breaks out into a giddy smile, eyes pushing up into a crinkle.

“Wow, George, I knew you loved me.” It’s meant as a joke (it always is), but the words sound so sickly sweet and utterly heartfelt - George almost melts right there, aching to pull Dream close and tell him how right he is.

Instead, he giggles and sidesteps his friend, grabs his suitcase and asks, “Dream, are we gonna go to your house or do you actually live in the airport?”

He regrets letting the fluster and the giddiness drain from his friend’s face but concedes the wheeze that replaces it is good enough for now.

The ride to Dream’s apartment is filled with laughter and music, the smile on his friend’s face and the sun warming his skin. It’s over too soon, but his disappointment is replaced by the excitement that he’s actually _here_ , at his best friend’s house.

It’s cosy, clearly just meant for one person (or a couple). Dream leads him through the main room — an open-plan kitchen, dining room and living room all in one — and into his bedroom.

“So George, you’ll be sleeping in here and I’ll take the couch, yeah? Bathroom’s just through that door.”

“Wha- Dream! It’s your bed.”

“Well, yeah, and you’re my guest. I’m not gonna make you sleep on the _couch.”_

“Why don’t we share?” It’s bold, too bold. George almost takes it back, but he stops when Dream’s face flushes again. His friend tries smothering it with a hand, but quickly lowers it and looks away, fiddling with his hoodie strings.

George can’t help but stare, wondering if he blushes like that all the time. It lights something in him, the idea that he’s able to make Dream like this, flustered and nervous.

“If- if you want to, George, yeah. That’d be- that’d be fine.”

“PogChamp. Now get out, Dream, I’m gonna shower.” Somehow, the blond goes even darker, pointedly looking anywhere but George as he backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a click.

George presses his ear to the door and hears Dream groan in- frustration?. It’s muffled, like he's got his head buried in his hands. 

Feeling a little like he’s listening to something he shouldn’t be, George slips into the bathroom. He fiddles with the shower knob for ages, about to give up and ask Dream for help when it finally, finally lands on a temperature he likes.

The spray is stronger than his shower at home, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just weird. How long he’s in there for he doesn’t know. Though he does _try_ to be quick, it’s all too easy for the heat to lull him into drowsiness. 

It’s only when his fingers start to prune that George gets out, wrapping himself in the towel he’d bought. He leaves his airport clothes on the bathroom floor, unsure of what to do with the laundry. 

It’s a little weird, being half-naked in _Dream’s bedroom,_ and he tiptoes across the carpet, wincing everytime water drips onto the carpet. George pulls the towel a little tighter around himself as he presses his ear up against the door again. There’s no noise from the other side - maybe Dream’s fallen asleep. George really wants to join him. 

Unprompted, his torturous brain imagines what it would be like. Dream curled up against his side, radiating soothing heat. Intertwining their hands, watching Dream blink lazily down at him. Watching that sticky-toffee smile spread across his face. Leaning in, closer and closer until-

He shakes his head before it can finish the scene, cringing as though it’ll will the thought away. George rushes to get changed, tuning out all thoughts of Dream’s lips, his soft hair and his adorable blush. 

When he leaves Dream’s bedroom, he swings open the door with more strength than he’d meant to. He lurches and almost trips, not having anticipated the aggressiveness he’d put into opening the door. 

Luckily for his dignity, Dream isn’t there to see him almost fall. 

“Dream?” He calls, stepping out into the apartment. There's tense silence for a moment, like the pause between an inhale and an exhale, before he hears Dream curse. Rustling comes from the direction of the couch, and Dream’s blond head pops over it.

“George!” He’s grinning sheepishly, looking like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Dude, I thought you _died_ in there, seriously! I was about to call 911, what the hell is wrong with you?” As he speaks, his eyes rake over George, not-so-subtly checking him out. The scrutiny makes him want to squirm, feeling utterly exposed in only a plain hoodie and sweatpants. Out of subconscious reflex, he reaches up to drag a hand through his still-damp hair.

“Ugh, sorry I actually shower, _Dream._ You probably stink.” George mock glares. Dream responds very maturely, by sticking his tongue out and making a face.

"I do not _stink._ I showered this morning! Come smell me!"

"Come _smell_ you? Dream! You’re so weird, what the hell."

"I'm serious! I smell fine, George, you probably just don’t want to come over here because _you_ smell.” 

“I just showered!”

“Yeah, yeah, sure you did.”

For a moment, George can only splutter in the face of Dream’s infuriating smugness. Then, he stalks over to the couch, crossing the distance in seconds. There’s no time for Dream to react before George is sticking his arm out and commanding him to smell it.

“W-what? George!” He wheezes, leaning back from the outstretched arm. George just raises a brow, wiggling his arm. 

Dream finally seems to realise that George is, in fact, serious. A little tentatively, he leans forward and takes an exaggerated whiff. 

What happens next is over so quickly George almost misses it. Dream leans in closer, something like content crossing his face. Not seconds later he’s leaning back and fake retching. 

George smacks him.

“Are you done?”

“I was right, you smell.” Dream teases, grinning playfully up at George. He twists the strings of his hoodie in between his fingers. 

“Oh, yeah? Let me smell you, then.” The look Dream gives him is priceless. He’s quick to cover it up, but George is already laughing.

“Oh my God, Dream your face! You do smell!”

“Ugh, shut up George.” Dream grumbles, hesitantly outstretching his arm. George leans in and mimics Dream’s exaggerated whiff.

And, well, he doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but Dream smells… nice. Like something familiar and earthy, something homey he can’t put a name to. It makes him want to curl up and sleep forever, drowsy and content in Dream’s arms.

“You smell like a wet dog.” George says. Dream scoffs. Before he can say anything beyond a scoff, George starts walking around to the front of the couch, intent on sinking into the cushions and living there.

He’s barely moved when Dream jolts, scrambling to shove something under the cushion he’s resting on. George stops in front of him, scrutinising. Dream doesn’t meet his gaze, awkwardly twisted on the couch. It looks uncomfortable.

“Dream,” He starts, “What was that?”

“Uh… Nothing. Just… Yeah. Nothing.” George takes a step towards Dream, their knees separated only by the space between atoms. Nervous eyes flick towards him for a moment, before going back to staring at the floor.

“What are you hiding?” George singsongs, curiosity overwhelming. 

_“Nothing,_ seriously. It’s not important.” But as he says it, a hand slides behind his back and under a pillow. It’s probably supposed to be discrete. 

George huffs.

“If it’s not important, why don’t you just show me? You’re so annoying.”

“No, _you’re_ annoying.” Dream replies, petulant. 

_I cannot be bothered to deal with this._ George thinks, deciding to jump right into the deep end. He crawls onto Dream’s lap, wobbling precariously. 

“George!” He yelps, hands shooting up to stabilise the man in his lap. Taking advantage of his friend's surprise, George reaches for the pillow, closing the distance between him and Dream without even realising it. 

There’s a sharp intake of air from above him, before he’s being pushed roughly back. George almost topples off the couch, but Dream holds him steady. 

Purposefully ignoring the position they’re in, George lunges forward again - but Dream is faster. He holds a rectangular object high above his head, grinning victoriously, cheeks ruddy and eyes shining. 

George just stares at the object in his hands, quickly realising it’s a notebook. He knows Dream writes, but the man has never actually shown George any of his work before, no matter how often he asks. 

“What are you gonna do now, Georgie?” Dream taunts, waving the book in the air. George just crawls forward again, pressing his chest up against Dream’s as he reaches to grab the book. It’s just _barely_ out of reach, his fingers grazing the skin of Dream’s wrist. 

“You’re so short, oh my god!” Dream wheezes below him, sounding choked. Usually, that sort of comment would piss George off (he’s average height!) but the way Dream says it has his heart rabbiting. 

Something soft and warm worms it’s way up from his ribcage, settling at the base of his throat. It finally registers how close they are. He’s literally sat in Dream’s lap, inches away from his face.

He doesn’t look down, because he knows that if he does, he’ll do something they’ll both regret. So he reaches up again, straining as he tries to grab the notebook.

Dream wheezes even harder at that, and in doing so his arm falters and bends. Score. George finally grabs a hold of the notebook and _yanks,_ but Dream keeps ahold of it with ease. For a moment, they’re equally matched, tugging back and forth in their scuffle to get a hold of the book.

Then, in what is possibly the biggest dick move of the century, Dream jabs his other hand into George’s side, just under his ribcage. George, predictably, crumples in his lap, yelping in shock. He lets go of the book, hands instinctively jumping to his sides.

Dream throws the notebook across the room. 

“What the hell!” Dream just grins at him, clearly holding back a laugh.

“Dream! Seriously, what is wrong with you, that hurt!” George whines, glaring up at his friend. 

“Wait, did you throw the book?” He asks incredulously, shifting in an attempt to peer over Dream’s shoulder. It doesn’t work - the hands on his hip are tight to the point of being uncomfortable. George wiggles in a pathetic attempt to free himself. 

“Dude, stop moving! You’re gonna fall off me!” George groans in frustration, leaning back and looking towards the ceiling.

He rocks forward and stares right at Dream, crossing his arms and huffing like a child throwing a tantrum. Dream just rolls his eyes, and the silence becomes taut.

George stares at Dream. Dream stares at George.

Then, George drops his chin onto Dream’s chest. The man literally jolts underneath him, grip tightening around George’s hips. He cranes his neck to stare down at George, eyes wide and mouth a little slack.

“Dweeaam…” George pouts, only halfway joking. “Why won’t you show me?”

Dream rolls his eyes and huffs, and George realises he’s getting actually frustrated. A cloud of guilt settles in his stomach. He just doesn’t understand why Dream can’t just tell him what’s in the notebook - they’re best friends! It can’t be that bad, can it?

“Seriously, just drop it, okay? It’s just… stupid writing. It’s embarrassing.” 

George sits up so that he’s eye level with Dream. “I’m not gonna like… make fun of you.” 

Dream turns his head back, and George realises how _close_ they are. He’s literally sat in Dream’s lap, their faces inches away from each other. 

George hasn’t had the chance to properly look at his friend yet. The glance he’d gotten in the airport had been nice, but he wants more, now, wants to know every part of Dream. 

So, he looks. Dream says nothing, or maybe he does, but George isn’t listening. 

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“Your eyes look… I don’t know, blue to me. Like kinda grey-ish. And they’re yellow on the inside.”

“They’re green, George, come on.”

“I know that! I can’t help it; I’m colourblind.” George complains, wobbling dangerously on Dream’s legs as he emotes, whole body moving with his voice.

“Wait, wait. What colour is my hoodie?” Dream grins, and _oh, that bastard._ George just stares at the hoodie, mind flip-flopping between green and yellow. He grabs a handful and brings it up to his eyes, inspecting it closely. 

The movement brings them even closer, and George just barely resists the urge to slip his hand under his friend's shirt.

Dream lets out a poorly muffled noise of surprise. “Just guess, c’mon!” 

“Hold still!” George snipes, intentionally shifting closer to Dream. It’s uncomfortable, having to bend his head forward to get close to the fabric in his hands. It’s nice, having an excuse to be this close to Dream, but then George gets an idea.

“Wait, I have the colourblind glasses with me!” He says, wasting no time in scrambling off of Dream’s lap. The hands on his hips fall away with ease, but Dream looks a little bit like a kicked puppy. 

The weight of Dream’s gaze rests on his back for the entirety of the short walk to the bedroom. Pointedly, he ignores the notebook on the floor. 

The door is left open as he rifles through his suitcase, finding the glasses stuffed into the bottom of his bag. He pretends he hasn’t found them and continues to paw through his suitcase, stopping only once he feels Dream stop staring.

Gingerly, as silently as he possibly can, George tip toes out of the bedroom. His eyes stay locked on the couch. In his chest, his heart thunders. In his lungs, his breath stumbles.

He makes it back to the bedroom, notebook clutched safely in hand. With absurdly perfect timing, Dream asks what's taking him so long.

“Gimme a minute, I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” He shuts the door; Dream’s groan of frustration comes through anyways. 

It’s not a complete lie. He does, in fact, lock himself into the bathroom - just in case Dream can hear him. But instead of going about his business, he leans against the door and stares down at the notebook in his hands. 

The cloud of guilt swarms back in again, heavy and thunderous in his stomach. George knows he shouldn’t be doing this. Swallowing, he slips the leather strap off and opens up to the first page. 

There’s nothing on it. 

Put off, he flips quickly through the pages, searching for something, literally _anything_ to explain why Dream was so protective of it. He’s about a quarter way in when something catches his eye. 

Black and blue ink stares back up at him, stretching out across two full pages. It takes a moment for George to realise they’re doodles. It takes another moment for George to realise they’re all doodles of him. 

Face burning, he flicks to the next page. The handwriting on it is somewhere between ‘letter from Queen Victoria’ and ‘literal chicken scratch.’ He traces a hand over the ink, barely processing the words under his fingers. 

It’s a poem, he can tell. He catches glimpses of honey-sweet promises, bundled up in tender adoration, and flips to the next page. And the next, and the next, and the next. 

It doesn’t take him long to realise that every page is about him. Whether the paper is filled by doodles, full-scale drawings, poems, love letters or whatever else, they’re all about him. 

He understands, now, why Dream wouldn’t want him to look at the notebook, but the thunder in his stomach is long gone. Replacing it is the scent of spring, of open fields and flower patches and lovesick nostalgia. 

George steps into the bedroom, mind running drunk on autopilot. After a moment of deliberation, he slips on the enchroma glasses.

When he opens the door to the living room, Dream is standing there. His hand is poised in a knock, and he lowers it with no small amount of awkwardness. 

“Dude, are you good? You were…” His gaze jumps down, and his voice flickers out like a candle in the wind. George’s fingers flex around the leather notebook, hand going molten under Dream’s intense stare. 

“Shit- George- I, fuck, I’m sor-” Unable to bear the desperation in Dream’s voice, he surges forward and kisses the man like his life depends on it. The notebook drops to the ground, allowing George to twist both hands in the front of Dream’s hoodie. 

He pulls back just as quickly as he’d started, giddy and light and just barely resisting the urge to bounce on his feet like a kid at a fair. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you could draw, Dream?” He teases, hands still bunched up in the soft fabric. Dream looks at him like he’s been shot, mouth gaping like a fish.

George giggles at him. Blush spreads across Dream’s cheeks, soft and dark and gorgeously adorable. He shuts his mouth with a clack, and George can practically feel the heat radiating off his face.

“You. You don’t think it’s weird?” The soft look Dream gives him, puppy-eyed and shy, makes George melt.

“No! It was cute. I didn’t know you could draw; you’re really good.” He glows under the praise, but his confidence turns quickly to apprehension. 

“Uh, could we, y’know, do that again?” Dream asks, voice feeble. A hand comes up to fiddle with his hoodie strings, brushing against where George's hands are still buried in the fabric.

And well, who is he to refuse?

His grip on Dream’s hoodie makes it easy to pull them back together. Dream’s lips are soft against his own, moving so in-sync it feels like they’ve been doing this forever. Spring blooms in his stomach, petals lining his stomach in a way that’s intoxicatingly dizzying. 

George’s glasses get pushed into his nose as Dream moves closer, and breaks the kiss, wincing in discomfort. 

“Pfff, sorry.” Dream chuckles, reaching up to take the glasses off. George just waves him away, staring intently at the hoodie.

“Your hoodie’s green.” He says with confidence, grinning up at the blond.

Dream just stares, and George realises his hoodie is not green. Not with the way Dream looks halfway between pity and laughter.

 _“Ugh,_ it’s yellow isn’t it?” 

“No! No, you got it right. It’s green.” Dream smiles earnestly down at George, cupping his face with gentle hands. He leans into the touch, pressing a kiss into the palm of his hand. 

(Later, when Dream is setting dinner out for Patches, George sends a photo of the hoodie to Sapnap.

Sapnap tells him it’s yellow.)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "i wear glasses" by mating ritual  
> i started writing this fic in fucking october but only just now finished it so it is very different to my original idea  
> idk how to write colourblind people so i just put a photo of [dreams eye](https://twitter.com/Dream/status/1246729047998152704) through a protanopia filter and wrote what i saw  
> i have a single google doc for all my dtteam fic ideas and this work was the one to finally push it over 100 pages  
> anyways cheers and if you leave a comment you're a fuckin legend


End file.
